


Roche Limit

by Rrrowr



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Alpha Credence Barebone, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Courtship, Food Porn, Graves-centric, Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Sexual Harassment, Implied/Referenced Torture, Injury Recovery, Knotting, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Minor Original Male Character(s), Omega Original Percival Graves, Oral Sex, Play Fighting, Rough Oral Sex, Self-Lubrication, Slow Build, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-31
Updated: 2016-12-31
Packaged: 2018-09-13 18:25:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9136114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rrrowr/pseuds/Rrrowr
Summary: Thirty years, Graves has managed to hide this, smothering the very base notes of his scent with suppressants while keeping intact the identifying markers — chocolate, blood orange, and ash. Thirty years, he's managed to kill every instinct he has to bare his throat when challenged, funneling his nurturing instincts into a desire to protect, widening his idea of family to include all of wizardkind.  For thirty years, he spent his heats doubling up on potions and taking sick days when that wasn't enough.Thirty years spent facing that challenge, and now — all of it threatened by the fact that he wanted, for just one night, to be himself.





	

Thirty years, Graves has managed to hide this, smothering the very base notes of his scent with suppressants while keeping intact the identifying markers — chocolate, blood orange, and ash. Thirty years, he's managed to kill every instinct he has to bare his throat when challenged, funneling his nurturing instincts into a desire to protect, widening his idea of family to include all of wizardkind. For thirty years, he spent his heats doubling up on potions and taking sick days when that wasn't enough.

All of that trouble because he'd known from the outset that, regardless of his name, there was no government office available to omegas, no power out there for an omega's hands to grab. At the very least, he could make his scent neutral like a beta, yet even that was no guarantee of success when Americans traditionally looked to alphas as a source of strength and leadership to bar against fear of No-Maj violence.

Thirty years spent facing that challenge, and now — all of it threatened by the fact that he wanted, for just one night, to be himself.

||

Interim Director Colby is a round, bitter little man. Graves has known for years now that the man hated his guts, constantly complaining about any and every decision Graves has ever made. His cheeks puff out on either side of the thin, greasy smile he casts down at Graves, and his mustache ruffles with every heaving breath he takes.

"Well, well, _well_ ," Colby says, clasping his hands behind his back. "Quite the position you've put yourself in, Percy."

Graves grimaces at him, but otherwise can't do much else. The doctors are tittering all about him, checking his vitals every minute, casting spells over his body. He's a fragile, vulnerable version of himself. Every breath, every swallow, everything is painful. He can't bend so much as a finger without fear of causing himself further injury. His mind is as sharp as ever, though. Graves thinks that, with enough willpower, he might be willing to hex Colby in the face, no matter how badly the act may hurt him in the long run.

Colby steps around the edge of the bed, around the nurses and doctors that are tucking blankets under Graves' shivering body. From the foot of the bed, Graves could ignore his scent, that threadbare concoction of sage and pinenuts. It's a weak scent for a weak man, but as Colby gets closer, the alpha notes get stronger. They are humiliatingly difficult to resist, and Colby fucking knows it.

His smile becomes greasier as he pets his palm across Graves' sweaty brow. "There, there," he soothes mockingly. "I'll take care of the department for you now, Percy. And if you need anything — anything at all — you can come to me."

Graves snarls at him, thrashes against Colby's touch.

"Please, sir!" One of the nurses shoves her way between Colby and Graves, wiping Graves' forehead clean of Colby's touch with the side of her sleeve. "We have a job to do and you're getting in our way."

"Of course," Colby simpers, backing off. "I would never want to endanger an omega."

Graves sucks in a sharp breath of clean air as Colby leaves. Pain blossoms around his chest and in his throat, but it's a good pain, a pain that he can cling to and fight against. It's easier than fighting against the well of pheromones he can feel spilling out of every pore.

"You'll be alright, Mr. Graves," the nurse assures him, blessedly cool hands curving under to support his neck. "We've got you now. You have nothing to worry about."

It's a lie — a sweet one. He has everything to worry about now.

||

Percival Graves, Former Director of Magical Security and Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, is an omega.

There. It's said now.

Graves thinks that he might as well get used to it, considering that any suppressants he was taking had long worn off by the time aurors show up to rescue him. If they hesitated in any way after being knocked in the kisser by the omega scent that permeated the room he was held in, Graves had luckily been too deep under the stasis spell to know. Regardless, it's no secret now, and Graves has no choice but to deal with it.

But even that will have to come later. Dealing with the changes in office dynamics; dealing with upstart alpha aurors like Colby, who will want to challenge his every order from now on; dealing with the fact that he might not get reinstated at all — all of it, _later_.

For now, there's the unfortunate matter of his health.

Months held under a stasis spell left him deteriorated, but that same weakness kept him from dropping immediately into the next hell on the agenda. He was long overdue for a heat, thanks to Grindelwald, and the doctors regrettably inform him that his next one is going to be gruesome.

Of course, they use lighter terms like _extended_ — which means longer than the standard three days — and _demanding_ — which means that Graves won't be able to tide himself over with simple toys. Or he _could_ , he supposes, but the effort would probably leave him drooling and literally painfully unsatisfied for three times as long as it would take with a partner.

He considers his options. There are frustratingly few.

The doctors have already talked about the idea of sedation, but they admit that sedation should probably be a last resort. "You've just come out from under a stasis spell, Mr. Graves," they say. "It would be very dangerous to try doing anything similar so soon." They strongly advise going through his heat naturally, and when Graves reluctantly agrees, they set about doing their best to prepare him physically for the ordeal ahead.

Four fat potion bottles sit side by side on his bedside table, each screwed snugly shut and labeled. There's the one for the blood clots. They're all over his body, but the worst ones are in his lungs, leaving him breathless and in agony after coughing fits. The second is to treat the muscle atrophy, and it makes his body feel overwarm and itchy. Another helps him regain his lost weight and does wonders for his appetite, by which he means that it makes him ravenous. He's certain that he's eating through the hospital's entire budget, but fuck it. He knows why it's important. After all, the fourth potion can only do so much.

The critical fourth potion is what keeps his body from heading straight into heat as soon as he gets to a minimum weight requirement. As soon as he starts taking it, he can feel the way it dulls everything down. It's stronger than any of the suppressants that he ever took by himself, makes the world soft and quiet to his senses, and it should by all accounts decrease the amount of pheromones his body is trying to pump out by the gallon.

No longer do Colby's frequent harassments — under the guise of checkups and keeping Graves abreast of goings on in the Department, naturally — leave him waspish and antsy. No longer does he feel the need to pull at his hospital gown in order to bare his skin to the cooler air. No longer does he attempt turning onto his knees, begging for relief when — Merlin help him — President Picquery comes to visit.

There remains, however, one minor problem in the shape and scent of Credence Barebone.

 _Alpha_ Credence Barebone, that is.

Everyone — from Colby to Tina, from the New York Ghost to President Picquery herself — has been keeping him updated on that one and no wonder. A magical child raised by the fanatical Mary Lou Barebone of New Salem Philanthropic Society. A child who managed to grow into an obscurial of unimaginable proportions. Who lived nearly ten years longer than the recorded survival!

"Powerful," Picquery tells him with a gravity to her voice that suggests fear and uncertainty.

"Resilient," says Tina on a separate occasion. The small, introspective smile on her face lets Graves know that she's fond of Credence and she hopes that Graves will be merciful toward him.

A part of Graves is greatly inclined to do as Tina wishes. After all, Credence Barebone is as much a victim of Grindelwald's machinations as Graves. It helps that the young alpha sounds very much in need of a bit of mercy.

||

When Credence is brought to the hospital one afternoon, it wakes Graves right out of a sound sleep. He's been doing so much sleeping lately. It fills his whole day — just sleeping and eating, sleeping and eating, each in turn between doses of potion and what little paperwork he can manage — and yet he still wakes feeling exhausted most of the time.

But not when Credence is led past him.

He doesn't see Credence at first. Graves' bed is surrounded on all sides by a curtain that stretches twelve feet to the ceiling with only a single partition to be used as an entrance and exit. He rouses too late to see Credence through the part, but he hears Credence talking with a doctor nearby, too low for words to be distinguished. Nonetheless, Graves strains to listen.

It takes a moment for Graves to realize what woke him. It's the scent. It's stronger than anything in the whole building. Even under the heavy suppressant potion, Graves can smell him. The scent sticks to the inside of his nose and mouth, tickling his throat with the tingle of burnt ozone. It's sharp like lightning, and Graves feels like it's a shock to his system, pulling his senses from a deep slumber. He turns to hide his face in his pillow, but it's too late. The base note hits him a second later: beaten leather — more a texture than a scent, sliding softly across his tongue, with the tannins drying out his mouth to the point where he has to sit up to catch his breath.

He grasps for the cup of water at his bedside and drinks deeply. He follows it up with a swig of the suppressant potion, earlier than is recommended by several hours. Yet despite waiting for the suppressant to work its magic anew, the alpha's scent does not abate. It lingers. It drags across his skin like entreating whispers, sets his body alight with unspoken promises.

Graves clutches the blankets around his knees with both hands. His joints creak with the effort and ache sharply enough to clear his head for but a moment. It's an indelicate reminder of his current condition, and though he hates that this is the path that his mind takes, the fact that he would crumble to the ground is the only thing keeping him in his bed. He's unfit currently to be any kind of temptation to an alpha.

(Except Colby, of course, but Graves hopes every omega in the world respects themselves enough to avoid that particular fate.)

His health does not, however, keep him from wanting to bring the alpha to him. He waits until he recognizes the voice of the auror escorting Credence and then, affecting a tone of nonchalance, he calls out.

The auror — Bertie, who is a congenial stick of a beta, and who Graves knows has been brought on to supervise Tina's evaluation of Credence — comes over by himself at first, tutting at the boxes of case files that Interim Director Colby has been ever so kind as to dump on him and then tutting even more over Graves' condition. It's all a very typical response to an overworked omega, suggesting that Graves should rest more, set aside all this business, and so on. Never mind the fact that Graves has only managed to glance over a single case file in three days.

Graves grits his teeth and gestures for the papers that Bertie has bunched up under his arm. He has to snap a few times to get Bertie to hand them over, and Graves shakily manages to summon enough wandless magic to make a copy of them.

An unreasonable level of satisfaction settles into Graves' bones. He hands back the original papers, and sighs as he runs his fingers down the margins of his copy. Before him, in Bertie's neat print, is all the information that Graves could ask for regarding Credence Barebone. He skims it greedily for something new, skipping past the descriptions of Credence's likely parentage and unhappy childhood and landing right on Grindelwald.

He stops at once. "Oh," he says. "I didn't realize. No one said-"

There, clear as day, the papers describe how Gellert Grindelwald came to Credence disguised as Percival Graves. Thanks to polyjuice potion and his own acting skills, Grindelwald managed to copy everything: Graves' face, his mannerisms, his voice, his _scent_.... Graves reads all of it frantically, unsettled by the very concept. Five months, and it had never occurred to him why Grindelwald kept taking bits of his hair. Now, it's clear.

"Sir," Bertie tries, reaching out as if he might take the papers away to spare him. "I'm sorry. I thought-"

Graves tsks at him, jerking the papers closer. All those visits and not one person thought to tell him that Grindelwald had managed to fool everyone for months. What did that say about him that a wizard like Grindelwald could step into his life so easily? What did that say about everyone around him? At least now he doesn't have to wonder why it took so long for the aurors to discover him in his own apartment. They honestly hadn't noticed he was missing in the first place.

He reads more slowly about Credence's meetings with Grindelwald, and though the descriptions aren't detailed, he can read between the lines easily enough. Bertie makes notes about Credence's unease about discussing the topic. There are descriptions of Grindelwald's scent, which matches Graves' perfectly, but only to a point, it seems.

Polyjuice potion has its limits, thank Merlin. It can copy all but the scent which dictates orientation.

"A void," Credence is recorded as describing Grindelwald's scent. "There was the chocolate and the oranges, but past that, I could never tell what he was. It bothered me, I think."

It's a short lived victory for Graves. After that, he learns about how Grindelwald more than made up for that absence of scent marker. Graves has to admit that Grindelwald is a smooth manipulator. With the life that Credence lived, it would only be natural for him to be sensitive to touch — to crave it, in fact. A few simple touches that appealed to the alpha instincts in him? Graves has no doubts as to how easily Credence crumbled, eager to help, eager to provide anything that Grindelwald might demand.

Graves lifts his eyes from the pages with a deep breath. It feels like rising from an ocean, he's so heavy with agony. Agony for himself. Agony for Credence. His hands shake as he folds the pages unevenly and tucks them between the safety rail and the mattress.

"Bring him here, Bertie," he orders.

Bertie raises his brows. "Excuse me, sir?"

"Credence Barebone," he says. "I would like to meet him. Bring him here."

||

To his credit, Credence handles the shock very well when he's brought in. Graves watches him carefully nonetheless, searching for any sign that Credence might not recognize him as … well, _himself_. Credence gives him one long, slow look. His gaze smooths almost around Graves before darting to the safe zones: the boxes of files stacked at the edge of the room; then the papers spread out on a floating lap desk; and then daringly, to Graves' hands folded together over the blanket. Credence takes a few shuffling steps into the room, nostrils flaring as he scents the air. Graves waits and _waits_ for Credence to parse through the flavors, and finally, a single shiver passes over Credence as he realizes he's in the room with an omega. Graves is pleased to see it.

As an alpha, Credence isn't much to look at. Eighteen years old and he's still as slim as whip, all long limbs and skinny fingers. He hunkers his height into something diminutive, almost as if he would disappear if he thought he could get away with it. Yet as the silence stretches between them and Graves' gaze lingers, Credence hesitantly begins to unfold, dark eyes shyly lifting from the floor.

"Well, aren't you a sight," Graves drawls, licking briefly at the roof of his mouth and swallowing. "Quite the unassuming package for an obscurus so powerful. I am impressed."

 _There_ , Graves thinks as their eyes finally meet. There's the alpha in Credence. In the mouth that slowly stretches into a small smirk. In tilt of his head. In the way that his line of sight doesn't waver once it's locked onto Graves' face.

"Tell me about yourself," Graves prompts.

Bertie cuts in. "Sir, if I may-"

Honestly, Graves had forgotten the man was there at all.

"I'm merely curious," Graves tells him. "I mean no harm."

"It's fine," Credence says, taking a few steps forward and nearly knocking his knees against the foot of the bed. He's dropped his arms to either side now — as much a display of openness as he's probably capable of — but his fingers fidget at the side seams of his pants, twisting the cloth. "Anything you want to know, Mr. Graves." Credence's voice dips in promise.

Graves inclines his head toward the boxes beside the bed. "Do you read?" he asks.

"Yes," Credence answers simply. Then, following Graves' eye line to the boxes, he adds, "Did you need help with something?"

"Were I in any other position, I wouldn't," Graves says. "But the fact of the matter is that Interim Director Colby had given me these cases because they might have been influenced by Grindelwald. At the time, I thought it was meant to keep me busy while I was recovering, but now I understand that Grindelwald has spent these last several months wearing my face."

Credence casts Bertie a questioning look, to which Bertie taps the bundle of pages that are back under his arm. Credence lights up with understanding.

"Unfortunately," Graves carries on as he gestures for Credence to open the nearest file box, "the vast majority of these are unlikely to have crossed my desk. So what I need help with is a very simple matter."

Credence carefully pulls out a thick file folder from the box and hands it to Graves. It has the pleasant side effect of bringing the alpha closer to the bedside.

"I need…" Graves draws in a shallow breath, attention snagged by the heady mixture of their scents in the air. "That is, I-"

Bertie clears his throat from across the room, and Graves' focus snaps to the case file with an embarrassed warmth creeping up the back of his neck.

"What I need is an extra set of eyes to find all the files that have my signature on them," Graves finishes. He flips through the first half of the file, and with a hum of success, taps his finger at a whirl of ink at the bottom of one of the pages. "Like this one. Do you think you can manage that?"

Credence nods fervently. "Of course."

Bertie steps forward. "Mr. Graves, I'm not sure if this is entirely appropriate."

It isn't appropriate, but Graves can't find it in his heart to give a damn when he's had uncomfortable visits all this week with Colby sometimes literally breathing down the back of his neck. He deserves something good to make him feel like recovery is a worthwhile effort, and Credence will be an adorable piece of eye candy once Graves gets him to relax. Besides it might be good for both of them.

"Appropriateness is no longer my concern at the moment, Bertie," he says. "Colby is the current Director of Magical Security around here. Regardless of the position I held before, I shouldn't be looking at these files in the first place. So, if Colby's going to be giving me this task, then I will bring on whoever I please to assist me with it."

Skeptically, Bertie raises his brows. "Sir," he says meaningfully.

Graves rolls his eyes. "Oh, fine," he grumbles. He points to a clipboard at the end of the bed. Helpfully, Credence brings it to him, and Graves sets out writing a note. When he finishes, he hands it over to Credence. "Here, take this to Director Colby. That should clear everything up."

Smiling a little, Credence takes the note and starts for the exit at once, but Bertie grabs his elbow and stalls him. "And if Director Colby doesn't give his permission?" Bertie asks.

Without looking up, Graves busies himself reorganizing the papers on his lap desk for a moment. "If he doesn't give his permission," he says, "then ask him again and tell him…" He hesitates. He'd been hoping he wouldn't have to play this card, but he knows perfectly well what Colby has been hoping to get out of his little visits. His next words leave the taste of bile in his mouth. "Tell him that I will consider it a _personal favor._ " His mouth twists sourly. "I'm sure he'll like that."

Credence eyes the note in his hand suddenly, frowning at it.

Bertie doesn't look happy about it either. "If you're sure, sir."

Graves absently reaches for the crumpled papers stuffed in the side of the bed. Endless words about Credence are right at his fingertips. When he takes a fortifying breath, Credence's scent fills his lungs. Neither should be the temptation that they are. Credence Barebone is hardly the only alpha that Graves knows, and yet when Graves looks at him — at his shy, eager expression — he is certainly the sweetest.

He nods firmly. "I'm sure."

||

Colby does like to drag out the moment. Graves can just imagine him slouching in the chair that Graves picked out and pawing over Graves' desk with his sweaty hands — the way he'll grin every time he remembers that Graves has promised him a _personal favor_. In the end, Colby leaves Graves to suffer through three stressful, lonely days before giving Credence permission work with him on the casefiles. Once granted, Credence shows up first thing in the morning, bearing a nervous flush and a new wand. Graves can see it hanging out from inside his coat.

"Miss Goldstein took me," he explains, fairly vibrating with unease as he hands it over for Graves' inspection. "It took nearly two hours to find the right one."

"It's a fine specimen," Graves compliments, measuring it between both hands. It feels powerful, and when Graves uses it to cast a fresh warming charm on his blanket, the wand gives in only after a stubborn protest. "A Beauvais wand, is it?"

"Yes," says Credence with a frown. "I was told that wands like that are good for Dark Magic."

"They can be." Graves hands it back, and with a reluctant air, Credence takes it before storing it back in the inside pocket of his coat. "It won't bite you, Credence."

"I know," Credence says exasperatedly. He very quickly heads toward the boxes of case files and starts pulling them out by the handful. After a second or so, though, he slumps. "It's just… Dark Magic. Is that all I'm going to be good for?"

It's an unexpected reminder that Credence is still an obscurial — that he will remain one for as long as any miniscule part of his soul thinks that magic is something that needs to be kept hidden. It's hardly helpful that he's growing up in America, where the Statute of Secrecy forces wizardkind to be completely hidden. Europe would be no better, not with the likes of Grindelwald coming out of their ilk, each of them shining examples of how magic could be used to harm so many. 

The obscurus is a parasite that Credence would have to live with for the rest of his life. Just as Credence would have to live with the fact that he'd ultimately, willingly set it free to wreak havoc on the city. Which might in fact be the problem, Graves realizes with a sigh. 

"Here now, let me see your wand again."

Credence leaves the stack of files on top of the box and comes back to Graves' side. The wand he holds up between them is a stereotypical example of Beauvais' work. Eleven inches, sturdy, streaked with black. The body cuts to a narrow tip, and the beginning of its hilt is marked by a carved divot inlaid with brass. Credence confirms that the core is from a rougarou and the wood is swamp mayhaw, though he confesses the last with a bewildered grimace.

"Swamp mayhaw sounds terrible, doesn't it?" Graves says conspiratorially. "It's much better when you know that it's just a hawthorn tree that happens to grow in a swamp. Finicky material, though. Lends itself to a contradictory nature, which — if I may say so — suits you very well."

"Hawthorn," Credence repeats with wonder. "My mother once told me that hawthorn could be used to kill vampires."

Graves blinks in surprise. "There are many ways to kill vampires," he says after a moment. "But doing so would be against the law."

"Why?" asks Credence. The way he's looking at his wand now makes Graves think that Credence is considering whether his wand could be thrust into a vampire's ribcage. "Aren't vampires just monsters?"

"According to your mother's teachings, we are all monsters," Graves informs him. "That includes you, Credence."

Having been reminded of the connection between wands and witchcraft, Credence seems to regret holding the wand so boldly. His grip slackens. His mouth twists as he tucks the wand into his coat.

"Monsters," he grumbles and goes to gather the case files again. "She was a monster."

Graves cannot bring himself to reassure Credence one way or the other. Which would be better? Which would be worse? That Mary Lou Barebone loved her adopted son regardless and wanted to save him from what she imagined was a wretched, wicked existence, or that she hadn't loved him at all and didn't deserve a lick of any positive emotion Credence might yet harbor for the woman who raised him. It's not Graves' place to say which of those options is the truth.

Thankfully, Credence does not look to Graves for any kind of guidance through his emotional landmines. He brings some of the files to Graves' bed and sets them in a neat stack next to his knees. He pulls another handful of files and brings them to a table that Graves had the nurses bring in earlier.

Together, they work together with quiet efficiency, though Graves is privately ashamed by how often he drifts off — sometimes because he gets sidetracked by Credence's scent, and sometimes because he's just tired. Credence's pace is slow at first, but gradually, Graves notices how quickly he starts to flip through the pages, seeking the sections most likely to have Graves' signature. They're interrupted in regular intervals by the nurse, who comes in every two hours to administer his various potions, and then at last, by lunch.

"Excellent," Graves praises, hastily stacking his work aside. "I'm starving."

House elves serve lunch trays to both of them, though Graves' tray is considerably more overflowing. Credence seems shocked to see so much food piled up in front of him, but he happily nibbles at everything at a steady, sedate pace. He laughs incredulously when he notices how much food is on Graves' plate — the thick sandwich that's layered with meat and vegetables, the wide lipped bowl of creamy tomato soup and bread tower, the double serving of cut fruit, the generous cut of red velvet cake — but as Graves tucks it all in with fervor, he begins to stare.

Graves polishes off his sandwich and uses the last of the bread to soak up the final streaks of soup before he bothers looking up. Credence is holding his sandwich in both hands, having taken only a couple bites. He's slackjawed — transfixed, apparently, by how quickly and completely Graves has demolished half his lunch.

"Better finish that," Graves tells him, inclining his head to Credence's sandwich. "I'm likely to go after it if it's not eaten by the time I'm done here."

Credence dutifully finishes his sandwich, casting fretful looks at Graves like he's honestly worried that Graves might launch himself out of the bed. Graves laughs privately as he skips the fruit bowl in favor of dessert.

"Is it safe for you to be eating so much?" Credence eventually asks, after his tray has been taken away by the house elves. Graves is still working through his. "That is… There was an orphan we brought in once. He was starving too, and he ate bowl after bowl. The soup was barely more than water, really, but he got sick afterward. Couldn't keep any of it down."

Graves nods. He's heard stories like that. "You'd have to ask the doctors, but if memory serves, one of the potions I'm taking is supposed to make me gain weight. Can't do its job if I don't eat. Ah," here, the nurse comes in with just the potion Graves was talking about. "Six times a day with meals. Shame that it leaves me hungry all over again in just a couple hours."

"Six?" Credence echoes with some alarm. He looks Graves' over, trying to assess just how much weight Graves must have lost and how much more he might need to gain yet. "I knew you were sick but…"

Graves takes his teaspoon of potion and lies back as his belly gives an uncertain gurgle. He still has his fruit to nibble at over the course of the afternoon. He stretches his fingers out to examine them. He's gained back perhaps half his weight, but his fingers still look terribly thin with papery skin and bulging knuckles.

"This is nothing," Graves says. He meant to be reassuring, but the dismissal only serves to make Credence look horrified. Nonetheless, Graves beckons Credence to his side and leans forward, pulling aside part of his hospital gown and exposing the mottled bruising that covers the whole underside of his body. "My back, you see-"

He cuts off into a coughing fit just as Credence reaches his side. The fit lasts for several minutes and leaves Graves winded afterward. Credence slides a warm, comforting palm over his spine and tucks the hospital gown closed behind him before helping him lean back into the pillows. Graves rubs at the center of his chest, trying to ease the tightness in his lungs. Credence hovers next to him, brows creased. Unable to stand the concern, Graves quickly directs him to the bedside table, to the green potion bottle, which Credence obligingly fetches. Graves chugs down a few mouthfuls of the potion. It soaks into his bones. Slowly, the clench of his ribs loosens, softens, and allows him to finally draw a deeper breath.

As Graves sags into the pillows, he turns to look at Credence. Credence is running his fingers under the label on the potion bottle, expression thoughtful and worried. "You're more ill than I thought," he says. "Miss Goldstein said… She said you were getting better, but…"

Graves reaches out to cover Credence's hands. "The worst has long past," he confides, squeezing Credence's fingers. "From this point forward, the most I need to do is rest. Save my energy for the weeks ahead."

Credence purses his lips doubtfully, still eyeing the potion bottle and clearly remembering how many different potions that he's seen Graves taking over the course of the day. Gradually, Graves is able to coax them both back to work, though Credence does so at his earlier, slower pace. For himself, Graves is still nibbling at both cake and fruit between turning pages, and he does his very best to appear unaware of Credence's fretful air through the remaining afternoon.

Eventually, a nurse pops her head in to say that the doctor is on the floor doing his rounds and that, since visiting hours are almost at a close, Credence should ready himself to leave for the day. Dutifully, Credence begins tidying up his corner of the room, gathering the files he's identified and stacking them into an empty box for Graves to look over later. Even when added to the cases that Graves has already identified, their full day's work fills up only half the box. Fairly pitiful.

"Thank you for letting me help you, Mr. Graves. I'll work harder tomorrow," Credence promises, hands wringing together.

So nervous, so filled with tender anxiety and a desire to please. It's a twisted version of the giving nature of alphas. Graves can see that there's a large part of Credence that very much wants to provide, but it's tempered sharply by a certainty that such provisions will be rejected or humiliated. Such were the methods of Mary Lou Barebone.

Graves knows that none of this paperwork is truly necessary, regardless what he told Credence earlier. If Colby is any measure of capable, there would be a solid group of aurors already going over these very same case files — evaluating them, second guessing every recorded decision, discerning if Grindelwald had any sway over the final results. No, Graves' initial assessment would have to be true: that all this was just busy work to make him feel like he was still important in the grand scheme of things. Fact of the matter is that Graves could just as easily spend the next week drooling stupidly into his pillows, dully waiting for the right time to go off the heavy suppressants. Choosing that path, however, would mean empty wastes of time, lonely hours going slowly crazy as he anticipated the nasty inevitability of a solitary heat cycle, and that was entirely unacceptable.

"Both of us will work harder," Graves promises Credence in return. "As long as you're willing, you will always be welcome."

Credence smiles brightly — a there and gone again flash of teeth that disappears when the doctor suddenly sweeps aside the curtain. Pride frightened back into hiding. His scent is still pleased, at least. It hovers in the air long after Credence makes his exit.

The doctor raises bushy brows at Graves, but waits, rocking back and forth on his feet, for Credence to be out of earshot before speaking. "A little young for you, isn't he?"

Dr. MacKinney is an older wizard, beta, and possessor of a full head of fuzzy red hair. His jolly disposition has been a source of great comfort during the week since Graves' rescue from captivity, and he grins when Graves levels him with an unimpressed glare. He pulls out his wand and starts tapping various pieces of equipment, taking vitals and assessing how much improvement Graves has made since the day before.

"I'm merely being thoughtful of your upcoming heat," MacKinney says. "After all, you have a rocky road ahead of you, Mr. Graves. You know as well as I do that the path would be smoother with someone to help you. Have you talked with him about it?"

"No," Graves confesses as he sits up, taking as deep a breath as he can while a stethoscope listens in various places on his back. MacKinney tuts at him and waves his wand toward the medical chart, where a pen marks down notes. "I've barely thought about it, to be honest."

MacKinney drops the stethoscope's ears around his neck. "And why not, hm? He's a young alpha and I was told that he's been happily attached to your bedside all day. He'd definitely be able to keep up with whatever demands you'd make of him."

"It's complicated," Graves says.

MacKinney drops the hospital bed by several inches, pulls back the blankets, and holds out both arms for Graves to clasp as he scoots to the edge of the bed and prepares to rise on unsteady legs. The potions have been doing good work thus far. Graves has nearly all his muscle definition back, but the muscles themselves are feeble things, still learning how to bear his full weight.

"Complicated how?" MacKinney asks.

"Well, for one thing, he's an obscurial," Graves grits out. "For another, Grindelwald used my face while manipulating him."

MacKinney whistles. "Tough luck." He carefully guides Graves through a few laps around the room, occasionally reminding Graves not to lock his knees. "How 'bout that other alpha I've seen around? Older fellow, the one with the strut and the receding hairline?"

"Colby," Graves supplies, panting with the effort of walking. "And not a fucking chance. Bastard's trying to steal my job and he's dropped a load of meaningless busy work on me to boot. I'd rather die than let him see me when I'm vulnerable like that. He'd never let me live it down."

Humming, MacKinney braces Graves' weight as he sinks down into the bed, tutting again before Graves can collapse face first into the pillows. "First things first, push against my hand," he instructs, placing his palm over Graves' left shin. Graves wearily performs as he's directed through a series of physical actions, each one weaker than he hoped. "Whether you have an alpha or not is always up to you, Mr. Graves. You know what I've advised and what will happen to you without one. Either way, we'll do our best to make sure you're ready for it."

Graves is finally allowed to rest, but MacKinney is merciless. He stands back, holding the blankets aloft while Graves has to heave himself back into his ideal lounging position. MacKinney tucks the blanket around the edges of the bed, and because Graves has his eyes closed and his head tilted back while he tries to catch his breath, he doesn't realize that MacKinney's found the copy of Bertie's notes on Credence before it's too late.

"Credence Barebone, hm," MacKinney muses aloud. Graves' eyes pop open and he snatches the papers from MacKinney's hands as soon as he sees them. "Now I really see why it's _complicated_."

"Nosy fucker," Graves grumbles, shoving the papers under the blankets.

Smiling, MacKinney shrugs off the insult and begins tapping his wand at the collection of potion bottles at the bedside, finding out how much Graves has taken over the course of the day. "If you don't mind my asking, Mr. Graves. If you are so determined not to have a heat partner, then why involve yourself with Mr. Barebone at all?"

"How do you mean? He's assisting me with the case files."

MacKinney nods slowly, head tilted as he considers his words with care. "You mean the meaningless busy work that Alpha Colby gave you?"

Graves crosses his arms. "What are you saying, doctor?"

"Just that perhaps you might consider the reasons you've invited him to work with you," MacKinney suggests gently, "before you abandon the idea of a heat partner altogether."

||

Credence arrives the next morning with a skip in his step. He has his coat slung over one arm, and in the crook of the other, he carries a pastel pink box with _Kowalski Quality Baked Goods_ written across the top. Credence offers him the box. Graves is only halfway through his breakfast — eggs, bacon, extra large bowl of oatmeal with strawberries, and a coffee — but he pushes it all away in favor of the sweet smelling gift.

"Queenie gets them every morning, but she never finishes them," Credence explains, folding his hands behind his back. Graves lifts the cover and spies an assortment of pastries. "She said that I could bring some to you if I wanted, and... I thought, since you mentioned that you're always hungry, you might like these."

"You didn't have to do that, Credence," Graves says.

"I know," Credence tells him. "I- I wanted to."

Graves has never been one to receive gifts. A habit of staunch privacy has meant difficulty making friends, so he has, at best, been the recipient of the generic offerings given by coworkers during Christmas or his birthday if they ever discover the date. He traces the rim of the pastry box, feeling oddly touched.

He catches a bit of icing with his fingertips and licks it off. It's sweet, of course, but also creamy and delicate. Delicious. Lifting one out of the box, Graves tears it in half, juggling the pieces when the jelly center starts spilling out. He offers one of the halves to Credence, and actively avoids noticing the way their fingers brush in the exchange.

Graves tries to be polite at first, unsure if the treat will taste as good as it smells. The buttery, pillow-soft dough has a thin flaking crust covered by sprinkled sugar. The tart filling overflows with every bite, and Graves has to wipe at the corners of his mouth to make sure that he catches all of it. He finishes three pastries in just as many minutes, and with a pleased little huff, he licks his fingers clean of sugar. By comparison, the remaining bit of oatmeal he has from his doctor-approved breakfast seems unappetizing.

"You like them?" Credence asks. He's at his desk, eating his pastry with considerably more leisure. He has a sly smile that eases into something less insufferably smug when Graves nods. "I'll bring more tomorrow then."

It's a dangerous thing, allowing Credence the opportunity for such gestures, and yet Graves cannot help but feel flattered by it. It's the omega part of him. A few decades of being subdued and ignored, and the instincts have risen up with a vengeance, craving every scrap of attention that Graves can get his greedy hands on.

Graves eats the last pastry with more care. The food was a gift, yes, but not the courting gift his instincts are longing for. As much as Graves might hope, there's not a chance that Credence could develop an attachment so readily. Not with the suppressant potion keeping Graves' pheromones in check. As far as Credence is aware, Graves is an omega — an ill one, but nothing more than that.

 _We're just friends_ , Graves reminds himself firmly as lemon custard filling sits heavily on his tongue. _This doesn't mean anything._

They're drawn out of their work a couple minutes later by Tina, who calls out before she enters the hospital suite. "Knock knock!" She pokes her head in. "Oh, wonderful. You're both here." She sweeps in at a brisk walk with a small book bag hanging off her shoulder. "I have something for both of- Are you eating a niffler?"

"I'm eating breakfast." Graves shoves the last of the pastry into his mouth and quickly sucks his fingers clean. "What do you have for us, Tina?"

Tina's grinning at him and fighting to hide it. She pushes forward through sheer force of will, but Graves can see her amusement dancing all the way to her eyes as she hands the book bag to Credence. "This is for you," she says. "It's some of my first year textbooks. Just simple things that you can practice."

Credence accepts the bag gingerly and pulls out three books. Graves can just make out one of the titles. _Chadwick's Charms: Volume I_. Credence touches the hard covers with shaky hands, pinky finger dragging along the gold lettering on the spine. He doesn't immediately crack the cover of the top one, but he looks up to thank Tina anyway.

"Think nothing of it," Tina says, patting Credence's shoulder awkwardly. Tina's never been very personable, but Graves is rather entertained by her attempts. She obviously does it out of the goodness of her heart, and she means well. She's merely out of practice. "They were sitting in the apartment gathering dust. This way, they'll be put to good use. And you could practice! I'm sure Mr. Graves would be willing to give you some tips if you asked, and if anything went sideways, why you're already in the hospital!"

Credence smiles uncomfortably and glances to Graves in hope of an escape route. Feeling obliging, Graves clears his throat to capture Tina's attention. "Thank you, Tina," he says. "Was there anything else?"

"Only news for you, sir," Tina replies, straightening up with her shoulders brought back. Even the forced cheerfulness gets tucked away behind her mask of professionalism. She pulls a folded report from her coat pocket. "It's your apartment, Mr. Graves. It's finally been cleared by the department. No booby traps or enchanted Dark items were found. Some rudimentary wards were put up in your absence to keep out trespassers."

"Excellent," Graves says as he eyes the report.

Tina suddenly starts digging through the rest of her pockets. "Oh! I almost forgot. Here. It was collected from Grindelwald's person after his arrest."

Graves accepts the slim case that she passes to him. He can practically feel the way Credence's curiosity lands on him, spell books forgotten. The alpha's so attentive in the moment that Graves is almost abashed at having to unveil something so common.

"Thank you again, Tina," he says, pulling a pair of glasses from the case and pushing them up his nose with a finger. "This will make my day much easier."

"That's what I'm here for, sir," Tina replies, clasping her hands in front of her. "And if I may say so, many of us in the Department are looking forward to your return from sick leave."

That's a surprise. Graves' jaw shifts as he considers this news. "Director Colby hasn't given me the same impression."

" _Interim_ Director Colby," she corrects with a sympathetic level of savagery, "is not making very many friends at the moment. Frankly, sir, a lot of us already knew that you were a, um," here, she falters, dropping her gaze before glancing askance at Credence, who barely notices. "That is, your particular condition, while it was never talked about…."

"That I'm an omega," Graves prompts her.

She breathes a sigh of relief. "Yes, sir."

Graves takes off his glasses and absently cleans them with a wandless spell. He hesitates to put them back on. "How many?" he asks gruffly.

"Sir?"

"How many in the Department knew," he repeats urgently, "before Grindelwald?"

Tina stammers out an answer. "Well, I'm not sure. I think, perhaps, almost all of us?"

"You don't sound certain about that, Miss Goldstein," Graves presses relentlessly. "How many of you knew!"

"We never talked about it," Tina insists in a rush. "But frankly, sir. You were surrounded by the best aurors in the country. Your secretary always had your sick days on the schedule months in advance, even if you never took them, and we always knew to check with the calendar before planning any meetings. And in retrospect, some of us had realized that it should have been obvious that Grindelwald had replaced you because you stopped taking sick days altogether."

Graves presses his fingers to his eyes. "For Merlin's sake, Goldstein-"

"What I'm trying to say, Mr. Graves, is that it doesn't matter." Tina's voice is painfully tender. "You are our Director, sir, and we don't want you to go another day letting Grindelwald or Colby tell you otherwise."

When Graves shoves his glasses back on, he's not surprised to find that his vision is still a bit blurry. His eyes are hot with restrained tears. "Brat," he grumps out. "I'll never forgive you for telling me this while I'm compromised." He gestures unhappily with both hands at his whole body. Then, spotting Credence staring at him with obvious alarm, he flaps a hand in his direction. "How many times do I need to tell you never to leave witnesses if you were going to do something I didn't like?"

"Always once more, Mr. Graves," she intones as she has many times over the course of their acquaintance. She smiles brightly at him, cheeks red against the darkness of her hair. She thankfully brings all the emotional awkwardness to a close by clearing her throat. "Anyway, I should get back."

"Yes, of course," Graves says at once, and with a curt — if a bit teary eyed — nod, Tina departs.

Graves stares after her, unsure for a long while on how he feels about the information that Tina has given him. On the one hand, there's the relief — an immense volume of unmitigated gratitude to the people with whom he's worked. That his people haven't been ignorant all this time and yet still trusted his every order — it lifts a weight off his shoulders that Graves had hardly been aware was dragging him down.

He curses again, gradually becoming aware of his glasses fogging and his vision blurring with tears again. He covers his face with his hands. "Merlin, what a morning," he croaks out, raising his head when he feels the bed dip under Credence's weight. "Sorry," he whispers.

"Don't be," Credence says, just as softly. He offers a handkerchief, which Graves grudgingly accepts to wipe at his eyes. "It's, um. Nice?"

Graves laughs. "Seeing a grown man cry is nice." He scrubs a hand through his hair, bothered by its length. "I'll bite. What's so nice about it?"

Credence purses his lips and picks at the blanket's threads. "It's not the crying in particular," he promises. "This whole week has been nice. Seeing you has been… nice."

"Quite the endorsement, Credence," Graves drawls.

Grimacing, Credence tries again. "I meant that because Grindelwald wore your face," he says, though he struggles with the words. "It's been nice to meet you again. The real you. The man who like sweets and who wears glasses to read. The man who has worried too much about what people think of him. I can understand that man."

Credence bites his lip and jumps to his feet, pacing quickly away from the bed before returning again. He's filled with a sudden, frustrated energy, and Graves can see the emotions skittering across his expression as Credence searches for a way to express them.

"I never understood what Grindelwald wanted from me," Credence blurts out at last. "I've been told it was for this power that's inside me. The obscurus. But I don't know what he expected of me. I don't know what he thought he would say. I don't think I want to know." Grasping the railing attached to the side of the bed, Credence then turns his scrutiny toward Graves. "But you…" he says. "Everything is much clearer with you, Mr. Graves."

Graves sucks in a haggard breath. He's weak. Merlin help him, he knows he's weak. Credence's gaze is a balm on Graves' nerves. It touches softly at every part of him without feeling patronizing. No, indeed, Credence may very well be one of the few people in the world that could look at Graves — still red eyed from crying — and see someone strong instead of pitiable.

Credence's palm comes up to cup Graves' cheek and his thumb carefully drags across the skin that's been rubbed raw with the handkerchief. "Whatever you want, Mr. Graves."

The moment builds in Graves' chest like a bubble expanding with every breath. He feels so close to saying yes, to giving in, to admitting everything. It worries him, this urge to get nearer. Too close, he thinks, any every argument he has against complete surrender will crumble in the alpha's orbit. But Credence's touch is so warm and his expression, so sincere. Their scents tangle in the air. Graves feels intoxicated on it, dizzy as he leans in to—

"Time for your potion, Mr. Graves!"

Credence snatches his hand back so fast that he smacks it on the bed rail. The nurse doesn't notice a thing as she begins ladling out Graves' medications, and while Graves collects his wits about him again, Credence flees the room entirely and doesn't come back at all in the afternoon.

||

There must be a moment, Graves thinks the next day, when some people recognize that they're going crazy. It's a gradual sensation, barely noticeable when it starts — like an itch or a sudden burn. In one moment, there's nothing wrong, and in the next, it's all scratching the hell out of a bug bite or shouting in pain as you yank your hand away from the hot stove. Like that, but stretched out into days or weeks until there's an identifiable second where the message finally reaches the brain.

Graves is sure that he's reached that second. It lies in this moment, where he and Credence are not talking about yesterday. Instead, Credence is throwing himself fully into flipping through case files, and Graves is touching but not yet opening the small pastry box that Credence set on his desk. It's a second gift — no, it's a _first_ , he reminds himself. The leftover pastries of yesterday were an afterthought, nothing more, but this box is very different.

It's smaller than the previous box, obviously bought separately, and wrapped shut with a thin ribbon. While its cover still proudly announces that it's from the Kowalski Bakery, its design is fancier — not merely a solid pastel pink, but striped pink and white. Graves peels away the ribbon carefully, and to his left, Credence stops turning pages quite so quickly. The cover pops up like an invitation, and Graves can't deny the smile that steals across his face as he spies the four cakes sitting daintily in their individual pastry cups.

They aren't the heavy fair of yesterday's treats. Oh, no, these are far more delightful and are helpfully identified by little labels on the underside of the cover. Graves carefully lifts the first out of the box — a diamond cut of layered chocolate cake with a marshmallow creme center, dusted with powdered sugar. It's neither too dense nor too dry. It crumbles exactly right when Graves bites in, and the richness of the cocoa is softened by the creamy middle. It's perfect, and so is the lemon tartlet that comes after it and the slim tower of cheesecake after that. The softness of the Mary Ann sponge cake is the gentlest end Graves could have asked for. It's piled high with neatly layered slices of strawberry and whipped cream and is easily devoured within a few bites.

Graves looks over at Credence as he's licking powdered sugar and strawberry syrup from his fingers. He doesn't feel the least bit guilty for hoarding the treats for himself. Credence gave them to him. They were only meant to be his. Still, he wants to thank Credence for them, but a simple expression of gratitude doesn't seem like enough. Graves needs to do this properly, needs to—

He licks his lips, tastes nothing but sweetness and the sharpness of ozone, and Credence mirrors the motion exactly as he rises from his desk to come closer. Credence's long fingers aren't turning pages anymore. They're lifting, touching Graves' jaw, tilting his face to the side. Graves holds his breath, wondering if Credence will do what he dares not, and shudders when Credence simply swipes his thumb at the corner of his mouth. It's a bit of whipped cream, Graves realizes dimly, and Credence is sucking his thumb between his lips to taste it. It's sinful, is what it is. Absolutely sinful to watch something so sweet disappear between lips the color of wine.

The moment is not-quite broken when the nurse comes in with Graves' potions. Graves keeps an eye on Credence anyway, half worried that he'll run like he had yesterday. Credence doesn't run, but he does return to his desk and to his work, smirking when Graves complains about the taste of his medications. It's a terrible follow up to Credence's presents.

Credence starts licking his fingers when he needs to turn pages. It's something Credence has done before, dry hands on dry pages and such, but now Graves can't ignore it. It drives Graves to distraction. At some point before lunch, Graves forgoes altogether the notion of getting any work done when he has at his disposal the vision of Credence sitting straight backed in his chair, vest pulled tight around his chest, shirt buttoned all the way to the throat…

Merlin help him, he can't take his eyes off of Credence's neck. Graves has the most powerful urge to go to Credence's side and press his face into the join where the alpha's scent would be richly gathered. Nothing indecent, of course. He could simply rest his forehead on Credence's shoulder. Going lower, sliding to his knees and finding where Credence's scent is most potent — now _that_ , Graves thinks with a special kind of hysteria, would be truly indecent.

Graves could do it, too. Dr. MacKinney noted yesterday evening that his strength was almost back to normal. He has to use a cane for long distances, but even that wouldn't be a hindrance. Will power could be enough to get Graves anywhere if he had enough of it. The cane is sitting there, leaning against the side of the bed. Grave need only take hold of it, and it would be easy — _so easy_ — to walk to Credence's chair. Sure, he might collapse to the ground instead of kneeling gracefully. And of course, he might have trouble standing again, but then he might not want to get back onto his feet at all.

In fact, there's a part of him that's absolutely certain that he'd be quite happy and well provided for. Yet, though his heart races at the thought of it, Graves doesn't get up. Lunch passes, and Graves doesn't taste any of it, doesn't even finish it. Everything tastes like metal, like electricity, like smoke.

Instead of returning straight to work after his meal, Credence opts to pull out one of the textbooks that Tina gave him. Graves doesn't even chide him for it. It's not like Graves is doing any work either when he's too busy watching Credence's mouth round out the words as he reads. Then, he's fascinated by the way that Credence's long fingers fit tightly around the wand grip — incorrectly, though. Swish and flick, readjusting his grip, repeating failure again and again.

"Credence, come here," he says and with a few gentle touches, changes how he holds his wand. "Not too tight. Magical control comes from strength of mind, not strength of grip. Confidence. That's what matters."

"Confidence," Credence echoes, nodding.

He tries again. Fails to do anything more than make his wand spark a bit. Graves looks him over. Credence is stiff, uncomfortable with being observed but determined to go through with the lesson. His shoulders are tight, curled slightly forward. His shoes are pressed against each other. The hand that Credence has free is wound in a frustrated grip around the hem of his coat.

Graves hums as a terrible idea forms in his mind, and he pushes the blankets off his legs. The hospital floor is a bit cold for bare feet, and it's difficult to feel sexy when wearing slightly oversized night pants and a hospital gown. He'll make do.

"Alright, if we're going to make a lesson out of this, first we're going to need some room," Graves says as he makes a clear area at the foot of the bed with a few flicks of his fingers. It takes some effort, but wandless magic is always impressive. He beckons Credence near, and using his cane to support himself, shuffles until he's behind Credence. "You need to relax," he says softly, nearly against the back of Credence's neck.

Easy, easy — as if he were soothing a skittish horse, Graves presses his hand to the curve of Credence's back, sweeps his hand down and then up until he's grasping at Credence's coat collar and pulling the garment free of his arms. Credence flounders, uncertain again at being so boldly exposed, but he settles when Graves' hand returns, warm and heavy at the back of one shoulder.

"Stand tall. Shoulders back," Graves instructs as he slides his hand down Credence's arm to his free hand. He puts it at Credence's hip after folding it into a fist. "Feet apart, shoulder width."

"Mr. Graves," Credence says haltingly.

"Trust me," Graves says. "Just do as I say and it will help."

Credence heaves a sigh and spreads his legs. Graves makes further adjustments to Credence's body language, telling him to lift his chin and take a deep breath. Only then does Graves press closer to Credence's back.

Credence's voice is shaky again as he says Graves' name.

"Just do the spell again," Graves whispers.

This close, the cane is practically useless for keeping Graves upright. With every breath, he can feel his body swaying toward Credence. He puts his hand on Credence's waist, rests his head between his shoulder blades, and breathes as Credence murmurs the incantation. Credence's grip is still too tight and his wrist movements, too stiff, but across the room, Credence's book rises from the table to hover in the air with a slight wobble.

"There," Graves says, taking as many lungfuls of Credence's scent as he dares before forcing himself to step back, step away. "I knew you could do it. All it took was a bit of confidence."

"Is that what we're calling it," Credence mutters to himself.

Graves leans heavily on the cane as he hobbles over to the cart at his bedside, where his potions are. He's lucky it's there. The nurse doesn't always leave it, but this morning she had. Graves quickly identifies which of the bottles has the suppressant potion, measures a thimbleful, and tosses it back. Very quickly, the fuzzy warmth in his head cools down into something more manageable.

From the foot of the bed, Credence asks, "Why do you take that? Is it to hide your scent?"

"In a manner of speaking," Graves says.

"Why?" Credence is suddenly much closer, mimicking Graves' earlier moves by coming up behind him. "I like your scent, Mr. Graves."

Graves tightens his grip on his cane and makes a grab for the bed's safety rail as well. None too soon because Credence brushes aside some of Graves' long hair and bares the back of his neck. Credence rests his lips against his skin for just a second or maybe two, but it leaves Graves trembling. All the relief that the suppressant had given him a minute ago gets swamped by a fresh flood of heat.

"Where is your confidence, Mr. Graves?"

Graves trembles so hard that his body aches from it, each muscle twisting tightly over bone as he fights to keep himself from turning around and doing something incredibly stupid. Like kissing Credence. Like ripping open Credence's clothing and taking samples of his scent straight off the skin. He can feel the heat building in him like the vicious, wild thing that it is — coiled and crouched like a tiger at the base of his spine. The hospital gown stifles him. The collar's too tight. The fabric, while paperthin, might as well have a warming charm on it because Graves is sweating underneath it. He would take it off except that he's having a difficult time getting his fingers to unclench from around the railing and the cane.

"Mr. Graves?"

Credence is too near. His hands force Graves to look at him. And oh, the sight of him—

Credence is taller than Graves expected. With all his insecurity unpacked and all fear removed, he towers over Graves by an inch or two. He's strong as well. He catches Graves easily when he turns and stumbles. Graves drops his cane in favor of grasping at Credence's shoulders. His voice is as strong as his arms — capable of gentle murmurs as well as shouting. Graves can only guess as to why he might be doing either, and he does his very best to respond to the worry he hears in Credence's voice.

"They're calling the doctor, Mr. Graves. You'll be alright," Credence tells him. Distantly, Graves hears one of the nurses talking, and though her presence is normally tolerable, Graves presses deeper into Credence's arms at the sound of her voice.

Graves gasps Credence's name, gut churning in uncertain nausea. "I think I'm sick," he groans.

Frowning, Credence slides a cool hand over Graves' brows. "You're warm. Very warm," he says.

Graves nods. He's feeling hotter by the second, skin crawling as sweat beads out. He is at once terribly exhausted and so full of energy that he could scream, and oh he knows what this is. The urges he'd felt just a scant week and a half ago is nothing compared to the fervent power behind his desires now, and what's worse — or better? it's so hard to tell — is how focused he is.

Is he overwhelmed? Of course, but not so much that he doesn't know who his body is crying out for. It's easy to know when that person is right in front of him. His hands know; his heart knows. He grasps at Credence like he can't bear the thought of reaching for anyone else. Credence's name thunders right along with his blood, roaring in his ears like a storm.

He looks up at Credence with a longing clawing at the inside of his chest, and he remembers what Dr. MacKinney told him he should do. "I need to tell you something," he rasps. "It's important."

"Never mind that now," Credence says. "The doctor's here."

"You're so good," Graves says, words spilling off his tongue as Dr. MacKinney silently encourages him to sit at the edge of the bed. "You're so sweet."

They're not the right words. They aren't the words he means to say. How can he fully convey with simple words what he sees when he looks at Credence? The sheer humanity of him — the kindness, the protectiveness, the fear and the anger. Bertie's notes are crumpled under Graves' pillow, but Graves remembers how they described Credence's demeanor early after Grindelwald's capture. _Broken_ , Bertie said. _Afraid_. Graves remembers only that Credence was grateful at being seen as something more than an obscurus, something better and more useful than the ferocious force that lurked inside him.

"I want you," Graves says. He turns to Dr. MacKinney too because he needs to know that Graves has changed his mind. "I want him. It's okay. He'll be good. I know he will."

"I'm sure he will be," MacKinney tells him, "and I'll be happy to let him be as good to you as he possibly can as long as it's what you still want after you take this potion."

"What is it?" Graves asks, squinting suspiciously at the little cup of pink potion swirling slowly around and around and around.

"It's like your suppressant potion, only a little bit stronger," MacKinney tells him and when Graves twists away from the cup, he quickly adds, "It won't last as long. It will last barely a few hours before you'll be right back where you are now, understand?"

"I understand and I don't want it," Graves bites out.

MacKinney inclines his head with great patience. "Yes, but you see, I can't trust you at your word at the moment. You're in heat, Mr. Graves. It can make you willing to do things that you might not otherwise."

Behind MacKinney, Credence makes a noise. It's the worst noise Graves has ever heard. That inhale, sharply cut off by his jaw snapping shut — it's the sound of hurt, and Graves hates it. Hates it with everything he has.

The doctor turns to Credence. "If you could, Mr. Barebone, just step outside the room for a moment?"

"No, please-" Graves whines.

"It's just outside the curtain, Mr. Graves," MacKinney assures him, carefully guiding Graves' gaze down to the floor where he can see Credence's shoes peeking out from under the curtain. Then to a nurse, he says, "Privacy, please."

A charm gets cast with a flick of a nurse's wand. Abruptly, all the noise from the hospital — the other patients, their conversation, the traffic outside — is gone, and Graves is left with nothing but the sound of his own heavy breathing. He tries desperately to steady himself, to find his equilibrium, and can only seem to grasp the edges of it when he focuses on the black shine of Credence's shoes.

"Mr. Graves, can you hear me?"

Graves nods slowly and leans on the arm that's keeping him from leaning right off the edge of the bed.

"You remember when I came to see you yesterday?"

Graves does. It was a productive visit. He walked laps around the hospital floor, got to see some of the aurors that were nearly killed by Grindelwald. It had been very nice to get out of his hospital room, even though he'd been worried that the morning's emotion had driven Credence away for good.

"Yes, that's right. You told me about that. Now, this is very important. We talked about your plans for your heat, too. Do you remember what you told me?"

He remembers wanting Credence, even then. Credence told Graves that it was nice getting to know him. He gave Graves his hanky! And pastries! And even though Graves had ended up a blubbering mess, most of the morning had actually been quite nice. Oh, yes, Credence had been so shyly tender, and Graves wanted very badly to prove that he could be more than what Grindelwald wanted.

"But that's not what you told me about your plans, Mr. Graves," MacKinney reminds him. "Why didn't you tell me that's what you wanted?"

"I couldn't," Graves whispers, tearing his eyes away from Credence's shoes at last. "I was certain I was reading into things. He's only known me for a short while. I can't ask him, but I want to. I want to." Graves feels his face begin to crumple, the way his mouth stretches into an agonized grimace and his eyes press closed to try to hold back tears. "Merlin knows I want to and I shouldn't. He's been through so much. Grindelwald and- and his _harpy_ of a mother," he spits. "Just everything. I can't ask him, but I want to."

"There, there," MacKinney soothes, and with a bit of wandless magic, heaves Graves all the way onto the bed so he can lay down. "Heavens, you're all over the place today, Mr. Graves. Can't hardly get a straight answer out of you."

Graves nods emphatically at that. It's true. He's a mess.

"Now, I think we both understand that it's very difficult to make decisions under emotional duress, agreed? Lots of feelings and concerns pulling us in many different directions," Dr. MacKinney says as he picks up the cup of the stronger suppressant potion. "I understand that, Mr. Graves, so what I want to make sure — what this potion here will ensure — is that, regardless of the decision you make for your future, it will be one that you won't look back on with regret. I want you to be able to make the best possible decision for yourself with all the information we have given you. Does that sound reasonable to you?"

"What about Credence?" Graves asks.

"We can talk to Credence together, if you feel like you need help," MacKinney says, "but my concern at the moment is you, Mr. Graves. But for now-" Here, he offers the potion to Graves. "Take this and then we'll talk."

Graves takes the cup from the doctor's hands, and as he drinks it slowly, he searches Credence out again. Credence's shoes are pacing back and forth under the curtain. "He's worried," he says.

MacKinney turns, and upon seeing what Graves is talking about, he asks one of the nurses to let Credence know that everything is alright, that he'll be allowed back in after a few more minutes. He takes the empty cup from Graves after he finishes the potion and then takes a seat at Graves' bedside again.

"From the top, shall we? How are you feeling?" MacKinney's bushy brows are raised in polite inquiry.

"Better. More in control," Graves answers. He flexes and relaxes his fingers. They aren't as thin as before, and his nails aren't as brittle. "Sorry about …everything."

MacKinney waves off his apologies. "Don't worry about it," he says. "Keeping in mind that this won't last very long, let's do a quick evaluation." He pulls his wand out from his coat pocket and taps the usual instruments, looking at their dials and readouts and apparently finding everything exactly as he expects. "Definitely in heat, Mr. Graves, but the potion's keeping everything in check for now. Any dizziness? Difficulty breathing?"

"Dizziness," Graves admits. "Breathing's fine."

"Muscle pain?" MacKinney asks.

"Not really," Graves says and gets MacKinney's piercing look at once. Graves sighs. "Just a bit in my legs. Cramping."

MacKinney flicks his wand a few times. One of his devices lets out a few shrill tweets. "Got a few more blood clots here. Best to send you home with some extra potion for that before you start doing any activity more strenuous than walking."

Graves sits up too quickly and has to catch himself when his drops his legs off the side. "About my plans," he starts. "Credence should be in here while we discuss them. I don't- I don't want to make a decision without his input."

MacKinney pauses. It's very obvious that he doesn't like bringing Credence in just yet, but after looking Graves over, he finally has the nurses bring Credence back inside the room. Credence looks apprehensive when he's led back in, but he comes to Graves' side at once, covering one of Graves' hands with his own. His eyes are darting all over Graves' face, his body, as if he's trying to discern for himself that he's alright.

Graves hardly knows where to begin, whether with reassurance or with explanation, but thankfully Dr. MacKinney grabs Credence's attention and ushers him into a chair. Graves manages to keep one ear on the conversation, but most of his concentration is on Credence, who is attentive to every word the doctor is saying.

The doctor is very thorough, but being aware of how little time Graves has before the suppressant wears off again, he's also keeps the explanations as brief as possible. He explains omega heats and then how Graves' heat is going to be worse than usual because of his time with Grindelwald. He explains the options that Graves has, including the option to have a partner. Though MacKinney uses the term _alpha_ — instead of outright specifying that Credence is one of the possible alphas — Credence catches on anyway, glancing at Graves with a blush highlighting his cheekbones.

When MacKinney seems to run out of words, Credence folds his hands together. "So, what you're saying is that Mr. Graves would be better off — it would be _safer_ , if he had an alpha with him?"

"Not to put too fine a point on it, but yes," Dr. MacKinney says. "Extended heats like this are very dangerous. Anything that could ease him through it would be advisable." He wags a scolding finger at Graves. "This boy here has been stubborn. He's been insisting on braving this front all on his own. Until now, that is."

Credence looks at Graves. "You… Really?"

"Only if it's something you want," Graves says firmly. "Otherwise, I'll manage on my own."

"For _weeks_ ," Credence hisses. "You can't!"

Graves is determined not to let Credence's decision be influenced by the lack of more palatable options. "There are other alphas," he says.

"Like Director Colby?" Credence argues in a low, terribly hostile tone. "I'm not stupid, you know. When you said to tell him it would be a personal favor, I knew what that meant."

"Credence…" Graves pulls Credence's hand to him and holds it between both of his. "I don't want Director Colby."

"Good," Credence says curtly, ducking his head as he adds, "I don't want him touching you either." He steps close, putting his back to Dr. MacKinney as if forcing a level of privacy that they do not have. "Is it really okay for me to help you?"

With Credence so close, Graves feels a wicked heat licking at the underside of his skin. It's chained into submission by the suppressant, but it hasn't been smothered altogether. Graves presses his thighs together, and goosebumps shiver to life across his skin when he realizes that his knees are pressing in on either side of Credence's hips.

"Do you understand what I'm asking of you?" Graves asks. Credence is very quick to nod, very quick to lean in even as Graves continues speaking. "It won't be easy. I'll barely be myself. The intimacy alone could-"

Credence cuts Graves off with a kiss. It's chaste, but in his eagerness, Credence nearly shoves Graves backward, their lips crushing together. Bracing himself, Graves gasps and melts into it, _yearning_ for it to be-

"Now now, gentlemen," Dr. MacKinney interrupts, putting a hand on Credence's shoulder and pulling him back. "I simply must draw the line at this happening at the hospital. In fact, why don't we get the two of you out of here as quickly as possible?"

||

It only takes the work of an hour for Graves and Credence to be packed up and sent home. Graves is still feeling a bit queasy from the extra dose of the anti-clotting potion Dr. MacKinney had loaded him up on before leaving the hospital. They opt to floo to Graves' apartment, seeing as Credence is still learning magic and Graves' own control is shoddy at the moment.

Graves steps into his living room in a cloud of still burning ash. Credence is close behind, stumbling a bit more as he tries to keep hold of the package Dr. MacKinney gave him. The apartment is exactly as Graves remembers it — all the furniture in the right place, kitchen clean and dishes put away — but the air is too sterile and the atmosphere, too ideal. It looks like home, but it doesn't feel right, having been stripped of Graves' scent.

Aggravated, he begins touching everything. He throws his jacket over a chair and scrubs his hand hard over the back of the sofa as he stomps past it to the kitchen. Halfway there, he kicks off his shoes and starts sliding his bare feet against the hardwood floor. He squeezes a fist around the handle of his refrigerator until he's sweating with the effort. He touches the cabinets, the cold stovetop, the counters. He drags his fingers over the walls as he walks down the hallway to the bathroom, where he spies his own face in the mirror and jerks away from it.

His reflection is not quite a stranger. His hair is a smidge too long, and he's several days late of a shave. His cheeks are flushed red above the shadow of his beard, and his neck too. In fact, Graves can see the way that the red fades into a soft pink as he undoes the top buttons of his shirt and vest. The suppressant potion is still working. He only feels mildly feverish, but as he takes a few minutes to stare at himself, the blush of his skin travels lower and lower until there's an arrow of blood diving straight to his core.

He shaves in a rush, nicks himself several times, and leaves the hair in the sink. He'll wash it later. For now, he's just relieved that the bathroom smells like it belongs to him again, rather than the empty disinfectant.

At the end of the hall, he makes his way to the bedroom but stops shy of the threshold. 

The last time Graves was here, he was being hauled out by medics and aurors alike, moved while his body was still in stasis because no one could know what injuries Grindelwald had inflicted on him. The truth was that nothing physically terrible happened. Graves had merely been left there, alone most of the time, except for when Grindelwald needed a few more strands of hair for the polyjuice potion. Or, Graves remembers, when Grindelwald had needed to sleep. That was the most galling part of it; having to lay there as Grindelwald peacefully slept next to him, smelling like bitter almond and mint — all his hatred for this man trapped in a body that refused to move.

There's nothing here now to suggest that Grindelwald had ever been present. Not even a whiff. The bed is made to military precision. His laundry is folded away or hung in the closet. A spare blanket lies across the lid of the trunk at the foot of the bed, but Graves always uses it in the winter. It's nearing October and temperatures are dropping close to freezing. The blanket should be on the bed. In fact, every blanket in that trunk should be on the bed.

Graves forces himself across the threshold, teeth gritted as he marches across the bedroom. His scent trails after him in a cloud of sharp orange and chocolate, and with it comes needle-thin threads of ash — an accent that only comes out when he's stressed. He imagines that this room smelled like it was on fire for those five months that Grindelwald kept him. He has no idea how the bastard managed to sleep at all; Graves certainly had a hard time of it.

He throws the blanket onto the bed and quickly follows it with the other four or five blankets from the trunk. They all smell like chocolate and oranges, thanks to the dried orange peels and cocoa beans scattered at the bottom. Even if it's a manufactured copy, the scent is close enough to finally let Graves relax. He sinks to the floor next to the bed and presses his face into the blankets, smells nothing there but himself.

Home. He's home.

He wanders out a handful of minutes later with one of the blankets wrapped around his shoulders. It's only when he sees Credence in the kitchen that Graves remembers that the alpha has been in his home the entire time. 

It appears that Credence has kept himself busy while Graves was rubbing his scent into every corner of the apartment. He's made himself at home. Credence's hat and coat are hanging near the door, and while his vest is still done up, his tie is loose and his shirt, unbuttoned at the collar. Graves can taste Credence's scent on the air. He likes it — having Credence's presence so marked in Graves' home.

"We should talk about what's going to happen," Graves says.

Credence looks up from the box that he's unpacking on the kitchen counter. He visibly squares himself for what Graves is about to say, a little wary of being rejected even when they have come this far.

Graves clasps the blanket closed around his shoulders with one hand. "Have you ever spent a heat with anyone before?" 

"No," Credence admits. "Talking with omegas wasn't allowed."

"Of course not," Graves says. Even from beyond the veil, Mary Lou Barebone has managed to make his life more difficult. "So you have no idea what to expect?"

"I do," Credence counters softly, eyes downcast shyly. "My mother would have me pass out flyers in front of banks, businesses. She knew that an alpha would be welcome there." He taps nervously at the countertop, one finger rattattating against the stone surface. "People talk a lot when they think no one is listening. Even omegas."

Graves considers this — a young alpha hearing the day to day gossip mill of sex and debauchery passed between alphas, between omegas. It makes him smile to imagine all the naughty things Credence has heard. Graves isn't sure he'll measure up to the gossip — half of which he's sure were exaggerations — but who knows? This heat is likely to be exceptional in many ways, not least of which because of his body's demands.

Still, one thing should be made clear before Graves' suppressant wears off entirely. 

"I'd like to practice something," Graves says. "There will be times when my behavior will be confusing. I've spent a long time hiding who I am, which has led to my body sometimes being at odds with my mind." Here, he very purposefully drops the blanket off one shoulder, letting Credence see that his shirt is unbuttoned to his waist. It's awfully gratifying to see the way Credence's focus narrows immediately to his bare skin. "When those moments happen, Credence, I will need you to push me."

Brows wrinkling together, Credence steps forward, cautiously intrigued. "How do you mean?"

Graves hums, casting his gaze to the ceiling thoughtfully as he slides a hand into his shirt, touches his own too-warm skin, and blatantly circles a nipple with his fingers. "I will likely try to fight you," he clarifies. "And when I do, I want you to pin me."

Credence's attention is liquid heat on Graves' body. When he comes close enough to touch, the hair on Graves' arms rises like they would during an electric storm. He's certain that if he kissed Credence now, lightning would jump between their mouths. It's Credence who reaches out though, not Graves. 

His fingers are hesitant, so careful as they trace Graves' smooth jaw. Graves treasures that disquiet for the moment, leaning into Credence's touch as his hand eventually settles against the nape of his neck. He doesn't think the caution will linger past the day. Even now, Credence is pulling Graves a little closer, pressing their foreheads together and saying-

"Show me. I want to know how to be good for you."

It's such a startling request that Graves laughs a little. Embarrassed, Credence starts to retreat, but Graves catches him by his belt of all things, yanks him back. "No, no, I wasn't laughing at you," he promises. He fights for a straight face, but honestly he can't stop smiling.

"I can learn," Credence insists.

"I'm sure you can," Graves agrees. Credence leans away again, clearly feeling like he's being mocked. "It's just, it's more complicated than that. Here, have you ever wrestled before?"

Graves isn't sure of the likelihood. The Second Salemers weren't exactly popular even among No-Majs, but they'd gathered plenty of orphan children around their cause. It's possible that Credence might have played — oh, but no, Credence just shakes his head with a frown.

"Alright, how about fighting? Ever been in one?"

To this, Credence responds positively. "One or two." The truth was probably more than that.

"Won any?"

A faint, proud smile. "One or two."

"Lovely." Graves gives Credence a quick kiss as a reward. It's still a little frightening how easily his heat rushes up at such a simple touch. It's best to get used to it as quickly as possible. "Come with me."

Nodding, Credence follows Graves as if he were in a daze. Graves is picking his steps carefully, maneuvering backwards. He tugs at Credence's belt, not just to encourage him along but also to start removing it altogether. Before he knows it, Graves hits the doorframe to his bedroom and Credence follows him right up against the wall, the two of them pressed chest to chest.

"When we get to the bed, I want you to throw me onto it," Graves says in a low rasp against Credence's cheek. Both of them are looking down between them, watching as Graves finally gets the belt undone with a few final jerks and then pulls it free, only to drop it to the floor. "Can you do that?"

"Yes," Credence says.

"I'll fight you," Graves reminds him.

But Credence has caught on spectacularly. "You can try," he says.

They stumble in the room. Graves lets his blanket fall off his shoulders and ends up yanking at the buttons of Credence's vest, undoing them one by one even as he wards off and twists away from Credence's fingers. He grins at Credence's frustrated expression, knowing that Credence hadn't expected the fighting to start before the bed, but he keeps the fighting light, playful. He isn't really trying to get away, after all.

It's stilted at first. The two of them dance back and forth across the bedroom, working up a nice sweat — Credence from his frequent attempts to grapple Graves toward the bed, and Graves from the daunting rise of his hormones. Graves knows he'll have to give in soon, if he wants to start this with any measure of a clear head.

Graves' shirt is pulled all the way out of his pants. He sheds it entirely and his belt after it. "Ready, Credence?" he taunts, putting himself near the bed. 

Credence is breathing heavily, but not out of exertion, Graves thinks. No, the arms that wrap around his waist aren't tired at all. The throw that Credence performs is unpracticed but hardly weak, especially when Graves ends up face down with Credence scrambling up to just _sit_ on the back of his legs. Graves tries to shove up onto his elbows, but one arm gets yanked from under him and pinned to his back. He bucks wildly, kicking his legs out, but Credence just shoves harder against him, lets his whole weight carry Graves all the way down.

A groan slips out of Graves' mouth when he recognizes a hot palm resting between his shoulder blades. Credence's weight is mostly on Graves' wrist, and no matter how he struggles, Credence's grip doesn't slip so much as an inch. There are several long minutes filled with Graves' panting and the rough drag of their clothes against each other, against the bedding.

Then, Credence bends, and Graves _whimpers_ as the shift in weight drives his wrist harder into his spine. Credence has to move his other hand from Graves' shoulder to the bed. It's replaced by the thin strands of his hair dragging between his shoulder blades, then the point of his nose, then the softness of his lips — and they slide, one after the other, up the back of Graves' neck to his ear.

"Is this good, Mr. Graves?"

Graves jolts as the heat of Credence's breath licks at the shell of his ear, then squirms as his body begins to betray him. The curl of desire that twists inside him doesn't have as much to do with his heat as he might otherwise wish. It's such a simple thing, being held down and covered, but it makes something slot in his mind — a sharp _clicksnap_ of a join that he's long ignored. 

"S'good," he whispers.

He has one free hand, and Credence can't keep him from moving it when he's busy holding himself up. Graves works that hand down, hides the movement by stretching out under Credence's weight. He finds Credence's thigh, pressed against his hip. It's narrow and corded, and Credence jerks in surprise when Graves squeezes it, all five of his fingers digging into the muscle and grabbing it tight. It's a nasty move on Graves' part, but it's worth it — so worth it, to feel the thick line of Credence's cock against his backside.

"Credence," he breathes, grinding back with what little leverage he has. "Please just-"

Credence's forehead rests at Graves' neck. Their hips move against each other without either of them being able to help it — each shift made rough and uncoordinated by their clothing. The air around them goes thick with their scents, and behind him, Credence hisses, hips jerking forward before stalling.

"Mr. Graves," he says urgently. "Your pants. They're-"

Graves knows. He's only surprised that he's already wet enough to have soaked through layers of clothes. "Let me up," he tells Credence. 

Credence is off him so quickly that Graves has to lie there for a second, lost in the feeling of sudden weightlessness. He turns over slowly. Credence stands at the side of the bed, arms slack at his sides, too worried apparently to be embarrassed about the bulge in his pants.

"Take off your clothes," Graves says as he starts undoing his own.

Their clothing gets kicked to the floor with alarming speed. Graves needs only to open his arms to have Credence climbing back on the bed, and it's the work of a few guiding touches to get the alpha exactly as he wants him, pressed up to the apex of his thighs and leaning down to kiss him. Their mouths smear together with an urgent sort of pressure, and Graves doesn't try to control this, just wants the restless want that he can feel thrumming under Credence's skin. He tastes it in the seam of Credence's lips, in the way his jaw unclenches when he realizes that kissing can involve tongues. 

It isn't a long time before they're rutting together again — of course it isn't. The suppressant might not be all the way out of Graves' blood yet, but he isn't dead. He's got a young, sweet alpha grinding between his thighs. Of course he's going to find a way to get their cocks aligned.

When Graves clasps their cocks together with his hand, Credence makes a high noise into his mouth and tries to rip away from the kiss in order to look down at it. Graves allows him a look, one where he strokes them together and smears sticky fluid over the tips, but he soon forces Credence to look at him again. He wants to see the alpha's expression — wants, yes, _gets_ Credence's gaze blown black with lust, the slackness of his mouth, the flick of his tongue between his teeth as it seeks their scent on the air. It's a look that Graves will soon share.

"Credence," he says, arching up. 

Above him, Credence shudders, and oh, Graves can't help himself. He kisses Credence again, drags that soft mouth down to bite it and lick it. It draws the most delicious noises out of him — although, come to think of it, that might be due to the fist that's driving down around their cocks. Credence is a scrambling body of desperation, making movements he can't control — short, rapid thrusts that smack against the side of Graves' palm; fingers clawing into the sheets on either side of their bodies as this poor alpha tries so hard to find completion.

Never let it be said that Graves cannot be merciful when the mood suits him. He abandons his own cock to grip Credence's alone, stroking him as fast as he can as he whispers, "Come for me, Credence," right against that plush, giving mouth.

Credence wails unhappily as he does as he's told. Graves soothes him with little kisses all over his face as he falls to the side. It's easy. Graves languidly stretches out next to Credence. He's still hard, but it hardly feels relevant when he can just mouth all along Credence's pale, smooth skin, when he can just slide down down _down_.

The evidence of Credence's pleasure sticks cold against Graves' stomach. He ignores it. He doesn't want to wipe it away — doesn't want it gone. He wants more of it, everywhere, streaked on his skin, clinging to the inside of his body like it might be the only thing holding Graves together. He finds more at Credence's navel, pooling invitingly as it slips from the drooling tip of his cock, and Graves dives for it at once. Hands sink into his hair. Credence makes a tight noise as he shudders, and Graves sucks his skin clean, dipping his tongue into that narrow little divot to catch the last of the cream. He nips his way back to the source and groans needily as heavy length fills his mouth.

Young as Credence is, it's nothing to get him hard again. Graves palms at the insides of Credence's thighs, holds them down because they're twitching so damn hard, and he keeps that cock in his mouth, tonguing at the underside, rising to slurp at the tip before letting it touch the back of his throat again. Hands yank at his hair, but Graves resists every pull, feeling punch drunk at the concentrated scent of his alpha — the tingling anticipation of a coming storm making his cheeks burn and his jaw numb to the ache of stretching so far for so long.

He could do this forever, Graves thinks as he hums around Credence's cock. Such a shame that there's so much more to Credence's body that needs to be tasted because Graves could build himself a home right here, with the walls being Credence's thighs and his roof being Credence's hands. And in the center of it all, Graves would store himself — here, in the place where it's safe to be himself, wrapped up in the meditative rise and fall, the steady push and pull — with the tide of their scents sliding in and out around Graves' face like the ocean against the beach. 

Yet even then, it's not enough. He could choke himself to death here and still not have what he needs to smother into silence the firestorm in his gut. He wants and he wants and yet, _and yet_.

Credence's strained, "Mr. Graves," is a distantly heard thing. Slowly, Graves becomes aware of a thumb hooking in the corner of his mouth, breaking the seal that he had around Credence's cock. Graves rears back with a harsh gasp, coughing when his throat closes around nothing. He wipes at his face, mildly disgusted when his hand come away wet with tears and saliva. Even so, when he looks at Credence's cock again, it's not apprehension that fills him but rather a hot desire to have it in him again. 

Not in his mouth, no — something deeper than that...

But Credence draws his legs up immediately when Graves makes a move to do just that. He holds out a placating hand and says, "You were hurting yourself."

"Need something else," Graves explains shortly.

He sticks a hand between his own legs — bypassing his cock in favor of the hole that's further back. He finds it easily, and when his fingers press inside, a load of slick slides out to track down the inside of his thigh. He drops his head with a curse, shivering with how obscene he feels, and shoves two fingers inside as deep as he can.

Credence sits up, lifts Graves' face, and kisses him. It's comfort, Graves realizes, because he's crying again, and oh — oh Merlin, the suppressant is completely gone, isn't it?

"I think so," Credence agrees hesitantly. "What do you want me to do?"

"Fuck me," Graves tells him — begs, really — advancing toward Credence on his knees. "Please, please..."

Credence falls backs when he pushes, steadies him when he rises over him. He gasps when Graves' wet fingers wrap around his cock, and then groans when Graves sinks down down down around him. The stretch is enormous, and Graves doesn't… he doesn't actually get down as far as he thinks he should have. He whines and tries to force it because the desire is there. He wants it so badly. He should be able to have it if he wants it enough — will power and courage and all that, right? But it hurts and his breath stops cold in his lungs.

Sitting up, Credence wraps his arms around Graves' waist, hugging him, stopping him. "Mr. Graves, I don't want to hurt you," he says, which is sweet, but doesn't actually help Graves get what he wants. "Slowly is okay, isn't it?" 

Graves nods, petting back Credence's sweaty hair from his face. "Slowly," he echoes. "Touch me?"

Humming, Credence complies, kissing Graves' ribs — just brushes of his lips until he sees that Graves is looking down at him. Then he opens his mouth, tongue sliding out to lick lewdly at his skin, and ends each of his kisses with a nip. Graves' breath quickens again, and encouraged, Credence continues laving such kisses on every inch he can reach. 

His hands stutter, however, unsure of where to touch, where is safe, where would feel good. Graves has to grab them and guide them to his hips and then further back. He makes Credence grip his backside and then leaves him to his own devices. It's somehow reassuring to feel Credence touch of his own accord. Credence strokes down Graves' thighs and then scoops his hands under each buttock, squeezing — at first gently and then, as Credence performs more passes and Graves starts easing down again, more firmly. And as Credence becomes more confident in his caresses, Graves feels more comfortable in just letting himself fall inch by inch until he's pressed against Credence's hips.

Credence grasps his hips and tries to hold Graves still, but now that Graves finally has him all the way inside, there's not a chance he's holding still, not even to give Credence time to adjust. He grinds his hips down. When Credence's legs hitch up behind him, Graves just leans forward, pushing Credence back through the sheer force of his presence. 

It's a hell of a work out, Graves thinks with a hysterical sort of laugh bubbling up in his throat. A fun one, though.

Credence feels so good inside him that Graves couldn't stop his hips from moving even if he wanted to. There isn't even friction anymore. His body has taken care of that. The slick seeping from inside him makes for an lewd soundtrack to his actions — a wet sucking noise as he rises and then a wetter, frothing sound as he sinks down. Had he been asked before all this if he would like that sound, if he would like the audible proof of his orientation, he would have denied it to the death. Right now, Graves can only whine into the crook of Credence's throat when he hears it, humiliated by how much he loves it and how much he cannot help but try to make it louder, wetter, more obscene.

There's something that Graves is trying to get. It's a slow realization, very similar to the one he failed to grasp while sucking Credence's cock. It's easier to think this time, with the cloud of want being focused rather lower than before, and Graves is very careful not to rise too far as to lose the thick length inside him. He wants to keep Credence inside, of that Graves is very sure, but there's something — _something_ not quite being reached.

Graves sits back, splaying his hands across Credence's chest and drawing red lines down his torso with his nails. Credence bucks at the pain, and Graves bounces upward with the force of it, has a moan pushed out of him like that noise was just waiting for a move like that.

"Again," Graves says in a rush. "Let's, ah-"

Graves drops himself hard, again and again. He uses Credence as if he were an object merely present to give him pleasure. It's not right, but it's very close to what he wants. He can feel the way he's scraping at the edges of the target, circling around it like a starving shark, but he's not getting. No matter how he curses and begs, no matter how he trembles as Credence tries to calm him with petting touches over his chest — it's either not hard enough, or not deep enough and he needs, _he needs_.

"Pin me," he pleads. "Pin me, pin me, I can't-"

"I've got you," Credence says.

When Credence moves to flip them, Graves doesn't fight him. He's so tired and he aches. He's frustrated and it's worse when Credence pulls free of him. He scrambles for a second, confused and unmoored, reaching back to grab his alpha — to do something to remind Credence that he needs him inside. Credence pushes him chest first into the bed, and just like that, with his face in the pillows and his backside propped up, another peg in his brain grinds against its companion and catches.

Credence slides back into him effortlessly and an unseemly amount of slick pours out from Graves' body, displaced by his girth. He sinks so deep inside that Graves feels pinned by it, like gravity has left him floating and the only thing keeping him on the ground is Credence.

"Feel so good," Graves murmurs, not entirely sure if he means himself or Credence or the situation as a whole. Regardless, it's true. "You're so good. You make me feel so good."

His reward is Credence starting to thrust — tentative at first. Graves squirms for more, settles only when Credence's hand slips from the center of his back to the back of his neck. It's an accident — it must be — but Credence grips him harder sometimes, digs his fingers pleasantly behind Graves' ears, so if it's an accident, it's not one that Credence will correct.

Soon, the thrusts become more rapid. Credence hitches his hips hard against Graves' thighs, striking artlessly at his core. Graves curves up in welcome, begging as best he can with his body since he's not sure if he's managing quite as well with his mouth.

His blood beats a steady demand of _inside, inside, inside_. It screams out of every corner of Graves' body, simmers under his skin, burns in his lungs. He's caught like thread between Credence's hand and Credence's cock, stretched out like cotton on a spinning wheel. He's twisting around and around to the point of breaking, trying his best to become the rope that will keep Credence close. 

"Mr. Graves, I'm… I'm sorry, I-" Credence breaks off with a bitten off groan, shoving in a final time before he spills inside.

Credence almost tries to withdraw too soon. A fretting "no, no, no," slips out of Graves' mouth, and none too soon because Credence soon curls over Graves' back, panting as his cock begins to swell inside Graves' hole. Credence murmurs fervent apologies, and Graves whines as he accommodates the sudden doubling in Credence's girth. Then, the stretch seems to ease and everything seems to settle a little more firmly like a slab of foundation dropping to the earth. Graves shakes under the weight of it, fighting to maintain himself until the hard desperate part of him is forced to let go with with an awful _snap_

If being pinned was one and being forced to present was another, this must be the final peg to catch in Graves' head. He doesn't even realize he's coming, not really. His hole tightens vice-like around Credence, locking down like a particularly hungry mouth. His cock may have come puddling underneath it, but that's wholly secondary to how full he feels. Credence fills all the little nooks and crannies inside Graves' body, sliding like smoke between his organs, sending his nerves alight with electric shivers, drowning the terrible fire wrapped around his brain with a flood of satisfaction.

Eventually, he becomes aware of Credence nuzzling against the back of his neck. Graves twists to look at him and is greeted by liquid black eyes. _Gone_ , Graves thinks. As far gone and lost as Graves had been too just a few minutes ago. When Graves kisses him, Credence's mouth is trembling — all of him is trembling, shaking with the effort of keeping still — and he makes a pleading noise when Graves clenches around him. 

Graves amends his initial assessment — not so far gone as he thought, after all.

"It's okay," he prompts with a soft, coaxing voice. He slowly lets his knees slide out from under him, and making fretful wordless sounds, Credence follows him down until they're side by side on the bed. "Go ahead. You can take me. I've got y-"

With a little cry, Credence grinds his knot in Graves' hole with dirty little circles of his hips — once, twice, and another pulse of come spills between them. It doesn't stop there. No, Credence gnaws restlessly at his shoulder, hips jolting Graves forward with short, frantic thrusts. Graves helps as best he can, tightening his body rhythmically around Credence's knot. Credence spills in him again and again over as many minutes. Graves can only lie there and take it, baring his throat for Credence's teeth while he grabs at the blankets that smell of both of them now. 

It's the first knotting of many, and soon after, heat flows over his mind again. Graves loses track of them after a while, only aware of how he passes back and forth between mindless rutting and refreshing cognizance whenever Credence knots him. 

He's aware that Credence is not as lost as he is, that his alpha doesn't drift as far or as long. Graves gets snatches of minutes here or a handful of seconds there before his heat is rising again. He notices changes in location sometimes, blinking to awareness to find the kitchen ceiling overhead or the hallway floor beneath his cheek, but always, Credence is there, fitted inside him like he could find no better place to be. Sometimes, he's sliding bits of fruit into Graves' mouth. A lot of the time, he's trying to get Graves to drink water.

It's like dreaming — all good dreams, at last. Five months of the walls of his bedroom taking on the atmosphere of a cage are set aside in favor of the syrupy sweetness of Credence dragging his lips and tongue all along his back. Or better yet, the time when the lull in his heat lasts for more than half an hour and, instead of resting, Credence opts to drag his tongue lower, lapping lovingly at the sensitive furl between Graves' cheeks. His tongue coaxes out come and slick alike, and Graves trembles under the onslaught, torn between want to escape and wanting to rub his backside against that tongue for hours. It _hurts_ , but Credence is so gentle that it leaves Graves gasping in relief when he comes.

Then one time, Graves wakes up feeling completely sated. His joints ache with a chill he hasn't felt since leaving the hospital. The feverish, distant quality of the world has eased into a weary clarity. He feels disgusting. His body is sticky all over from sweat, come, and saliva — maybe even fruit juice, but that could be the pillow.

Credence makes an inquiring noise when Graves stretches next to him, spine and shoulders popping. Graves nuzzles his cheek, kisses the tired pulse at his throat. "Go back to sleep," he whispers and tucks the blankets tighter around Credence's shoulders with a softly cast warming charm.

More than just his joints complain when Graves makes his way to standing. His whole body feels like a giant bruise as he slowly makes his way to the bathroom. He figures that's just the price of surviving a heat, but when he catches sight of his reflection, he adds that maybe the marks Credence left behind might have something to do with the pain.

Not feeling up to the amount of standing that a shower would require, Graves draws a hot bath instead. He washes carefully in the first draw of water, softly cleaning between his thighs with soaped hands rather than risking the rough cloth. He shaves while the water drains and rinses the inside of the sink this time. Then he draws a second bath just to soak in. It's a luxury he rarely affords himself, but he needs it now — the subduing weight of water that's just shy of too hot. He sits in it until his fingers have pruned and the water's gone lukewarm. He very nearly considers charming the water hot again, but… an hour has passed. He should eat.

Credence is still fast asleep when Graves walks in with a towel wrapped around his waist. He looks worn to the bone and still so sweet, hand curled into a loose fist next to his cheek. Sweet, and very young. He stirs very lightly when Graves' hand hovers near his, and not wanting to wake Credence just yet, Graves withdraws. He dresses very lightly, finding a long nightshirt in his drawers, but even that feels a bit raw against his skin. Not to mention, it leaves him very cold.

When he moves to the living area, he finds the fire burned down to embers, which surely won't do. It takes him a few moments to find his wand — fallen behind the chair that has his coat still slung across its back — but once he has it in hand, he coaxes to life a proper fire and gives it a few fresh logs to eat away at. The living room floor has a pile of slightly singed letters that have been sent through floo mail, which he gathers to read over his meal.

The box that Dr. MacKinney sent with them has ingredients for soup, french bread, and a thick garlic spread — a simple meal, which is all Graves really feels up to at the moment. He eases into the welcoming arms of a chair and makes his magic do all the work of cooking — chopping the vegetables, baking the bread to a satisfying crispness, and setting the coffee to percolate on the stovetop. He doesn't touch a thing, just because he can again. Five months of nothing and another half besides while regaining his strength, he hasn't exactly flexed his magic beyond a few wandless charms here or there. Feeling his magic flow through him is like finding himself aligned again, pristine when he hadn't been aware of how off-balance he was before.

He has the bread plated and two bowls of soup laid out by the time Credence shuffles in wearing a bathrobe. Graves braces himself for an invasion of his personal space, for Credence to nuzzle against the back of his neck, but Credence merely pulls out a chair and sits next to him. He pulls a bowl toward him with a delighted noise and tears a piece of bread in half before dunking it into the soup.

"This is good," Credence praises.

Graves slowly follows Credence's example and starts eating too. "Thank you."

He sorts through the mail while they eat in silence and finds mostly get well cards, including one from Queenie Goldstein that has a dancing niffler waving a GET WELL flag and a cover that's covered in a truly obnoxious amount of glitter. (He rather likes it.) As he digs a little deeper, however, he comes across a letter from Madame Picquery with the seal of the MACUSA pressed in blue wax across the envelope flap. Her message is only a few inches long but very clear: Graves is expected to report to her office as soon as he is well and that he should be ready to assume his previous position as Director afterward. Her signature has the kind of aggressive points on it that only appear when she's truly annoyed with something.

"Huh."

Credence looks up.

"It seems that Tina wasn't exaggerating after all. Colby won't be happy to see that I'm Director again," Graves says, passing the letter over for Credence to read.

Credence brightens at the idea of Colby's unhappiness, but Graves reserves his celebration for later. Honestly, while he certainly hoped to be reinstated with little fuss, he isn't sure he's ready to face his office with the knowledge that everyone there will know his orientation. Tina's reassurances had been a blessing to hear, of course, but the reality of it seems much more daunting. 

"What's wrong?" Credence asks. "Isn't this what you want?"

Graves pauses, thinking it over. "Yes," he says at length. "I do want that."

Credence sets the letter on the table between them. "But…?"

Swallowing down a mouthful of soup, Graves touches the edge of the letter with his fingertips. "But there will be changes. Expectations. It was already a hard fight to be Director when I was pretending to be a beta. It will certainly be harder now, and that's without considering how Colby will react."

"You'll be able to handle it," Credence says. The level of certainty he manages to fit into those words is astounding. He does stop scooping soup into his mouth long enough to add, carefully, "If you need my help again…"

Graves flushes as he looks away. "I don't want to demand any promises for future heats."

"Dealing with Colby, I meant," Credence says. "With anyone, if they're bothering you. But I'd be happy to be there for your heats too, if you wanted me to."

Graves finds himself smiling. "People are likely to be crude. They will say very unpleasant things to both of us."

Credence shrugs this off, relaxing back in his chair. He looks thoughtful. "There will always be people who are terrible. My mother was a terrible person and I survived her. And Grindelwald — There's nothing that anyone can do to me that is worse than him. I survived him too. You did too."

Graves' mouth twists self-deprecatingly. "Have I?"

"You have," Credence assures. "You'll survive this too, I'm sure of it. But if you need me, I want to be there to help you. In whatever manner that means."

Credence's hand is resting loosely on the table. Though he doesn't really know what to expect from the future, has no idea what kind of atmosphere he'll find when he walk into the office next — Graves knows that he will want Credence by his side when he does it. He will want Credence's steady, eager presence at his back — want his curiosity stretching out around them when Graves is too nervous to do the same. 

He reaches out to cover Credence's hand with his own. "Thank you, Credence," he says. "I would like that very much."

**Author's Note:**

> Link posted [here](http://rospeaks.tumblr.com/post/155219114970) on tumblr.


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